


Confused Words and Crooked Paths

by providentialeyes



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Dubious Consent, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Massage, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, idfk how to tag it but john has a dirty dream about arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 21:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19411432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/providentialeyes/pseuds/providentialeyes
Summary: Arthur’s tired of this crooked path to progress and it’s weighing on his shoulders.He almost wants to let John…Let John do whatever John thinks John wants, and then just figure out the repercussions as they go.But he knows that that’s the easy way out, and that it might end up doing more damage to the younger man.





	Confused Words and Crooked Paths

**Author's Note:**

> so there's a lot of john being desperate to win arthur's approval in this and john's willing to do /anything/, so there are some moments of dubcon/misunderstandings, but john /does/ want arthur and arthur wants him in return, however arthur is holding back under the impression that john is only willing because he's under duress

It wasn’t even that big of a mistake, but the whole thing had Arthur on edge, too many close calls in too short of a time-frame.

All because of John's quick trigger-finger.

The younger man had ignored Arthur’s countdown by maybe four seconds, but it had been time enough for the second guard to whip around and fire at Arthur.

“Ah, man,” John grunts and lets go of Old Boy’s reins to rub at his arm, “Really banged my shoulder.”

Arthur sucks on his teeth, staring straight ahead and trying not to give in to the anger brewing in his gut, aching for a fight.

Something to rid himself of this _tension._

He holds his resolve for a full minute.

Then he gives in.

“Your shoulder?” Arthur asks quietly.

“Yeah, caught the corner of a buildin’ goin’ through the alleys,” John says.

“John,” Arthur says tightly, “You’re really complainin’ ‘bout your damned arm right now?”

“What?” John asks dumbly, turning to look at Arthur, who’s atop of Bo’ next to him.

“You almost got me _shot,”_ Arthur hisses out.

“How’s I supposed to know that man would be that fast of a draw?” John mutters.

Practically sulking.

It riles Arthur up more.

“You know,” The older man takes a deep breath, “Ever since you joined, some part of me’s always hoped you’d grow into a valued member of our lil’ gang…”

Arthur twists the leather of Bo’s reins in his fists.

“But all you’s done is eat our food, and wear our clothes, and take up half of _my tent,_ all the while not contributin’ _shit,”_ Arthur says casually, trying not to let his voice betray the leftover fear of a bullet burning through the hairs at his temple, “And every time an opportunity arises for you to prove you’re worth your dead weight… You somehow manage to screw it to all hell.”

.

.

Arthur’s expecting anger.

Expecting defensiveness and excuses and John trying to slimily worm his way out of any sticky situation and get off scot-free.

He isn’t expecting the deadly silence, only the sounds of their horses’ hooves hitting the packed dirt trail echoing out in the too-quiet forest.

Arthur turns over everything he'd just said, having unleashed months of pent-up frustration and anger onto the younger man.

Too much buried under too-shallow topsoil until it split the ground and flooded out.

He glances over at John from under the brim of his hat, not turning his head.

He sees John’s hands first, slack, resting in loose fists on the lip of Old Boy’s saddle to either side of the saddle horn.

He tilts his head just enough to glimpse at the younger man’s face.

Guilt splits him open like that bullet almost did when he sees the devastated look on John’s face.

Desperately contained through pressed-together lips and lowered brows.

Arthur’s mouth opens like he wants to say something but nothing comes to mind.

He can’t take it back, anyhow, so he doesn’t.

Instead, he urges Bo’ to speed up a little with a squeeze of his calves.

For once letting the urge to try and outrun his problems rule him.

\--

It’s like an itch at the back of his neck, while he’s talking to Dutch about their job, while he’s pushing stew around in his bowl with the back of his spoon, while he’s trying to write in his journal, unable to focus long enough to get down a full sentence.

He glances at the open tent-flap from where he sits on his bedroll with his lips pursed.

Anger having left, but annoyance starting to re-mortar its bricks into a sturdy wall within his mind, guarding and containing all the softer sides of himself.

But no matter how many times he looks up, expecting John to mope into the tent and half-ass an apology, John doesn’t show.

Arthur gives up on writing, closing the journal and tossing it next to his pillow before undoing the ties on the canvas and letting the flap fall shut.

He falls asleep squinting at the sliver of light peeking under the tent-front watching for the shadow of the younger man's boots.

\--

Arthur doesn’t sleep peacefully, and it leaves him cranky.

He sees neither hide nor hair of John the next morning.

He’s doing chores and passes by Pearson’s cart and pauses at what he sees.

“Who bagged the buck?” Arthur asks, looking over the meat being prepped.

“Elk, actually, and John brought him in earlier,” Pearson says jovially, happily slicing the silver skin off of one big chunk.

“John?... Our John?” Arthur asks incredulously.

“Not the cleanest kill, by far, nothing near what you usually bring in,” Pearson shrugs, “But meat is meat, eh?”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur replies slowly then returns to his work.

\--

He finally spots John that evening, talking quietly with Hosea, who looks stern.

Arthur leans back against the tree he’s parked under and watches.

Sees Hosea reach a friendly hand up to pat John’s shoulder only for the younger man to flinch when the touch lands.

Hosea doesn’t seem to notice, but Arthur damn sure does.

John’s nodding along with whatever Hosea is saying, occasionally shuffling his feet in the way that always tells Arthur that the younger man is feeling restless.

Susan calls his name and by the time he’s done talking to her and looks back over, Hosea’s sitting with a book open in his lap and John’s nowhere to be seen.

\--

John doesn’t come to their tent that night either.

And Arthur doesn’t sleep well that night either.

\--

Arthur takes up Hosea’s offer of fishing the river, raging run-off from the latest heavy rains having finally died down.

The water’s still a little murky and fishing always frustrated Arthur anyway but he enjoys the older man’s company none-the-less.

“What was you talkin’ to John ‘bout last night?” Arthur asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Dutch complained he was being pestered by John, who asked for permission to check out one of the homesteads we’ve had an eye on, and then wouldn’t take no for an answer,” Hosea says, tone _just_ touched by amusement, “Just had to remind him that something like that ain’t a one-man job.”

“Huh,” Arthur mutters and casts out again.

\--

John’s there at supper but doesn’t sit at the fire with the rest of them, folded-up on a stump with a newspaper in his lap.

Dutch gathers everyone’s attention by clearing his throat.

“Now, I know we ain’t had the best o’ luck recently, what with this pattern of jobs going sideways,” Dutch says, tone light as he tilts his head back to aim that last bit at John.

In jest, Arthur’s sure, never taking John’s shortcomings seriously, never as upset with John’s mistakes as anyone else.

Arthur looks over at the younger man and sees John’s head ducked, chest folded further over his legs, fingers clenched around the edges of the paper.

“But,” Dutch continues, “This next job oughta have our asses being wiped with cash for the next couple months.”

Arthur lets out a soft snort and returns his attention to Dutch.

Listening to the older man explain the grand plan.

\--

John doesn’t come to their tent that night either and Arthur tiredly wonders where the younger man is sleeping as he lays on his back and stares into the dark.

Unused to sleeping without John’s soft snoring and unintelligible dream-language.

\--

A week later John’s carrying a quarter of a deer to Pearson’s prep-table with the older man carrying another quarter.

John's covered in blood, and the tightness of his expression makes Arthur wonder if it’s all the deer’s.

“You need to work on your aim, Boy,” Pearson teases, “Waste of good meat. You want lead seasoning in your food?”

“No, Sir,” John mutters and unloads the hindquarter off his shoulder, “Sorry.”

“Ahh, well,” Pearson pokes at some of the meat, inspecting, “Sure this’ll last us a little while, anyhow.”

John nods slowly and rubs at his shoulder before saying a quiet goodbye and moving across camp towards the river.

Arthur watches John massage his shoulder then sit his ass on the bank and dig his fingers into the dark dirt.

The older man stands from his chair and reaches his arms out to either side, feeling the pleasant stretch in his chest.

He grabs his fishing pole from their tent and walks over to stand a few feet from John.

The younger man takes a minute to notice him before stilling.

“Playin’ in the dirt, Johnny?” Arthur asks as he walks along the river’s edge, trying to spot any fish.

John shifts his legs to uncross them, shifting the little tin cup next to him to his other side, and tilts his head slightly towards Arthur, not quite a nod.

Arthur’s brows furrow in confusion at the reaction.

He sighs roughly, that wall of annoyance still standing strong in his head.

He sees John shift out of the corner of his eye.

“Your little huntin’ adventure where my rifle’s gone?” Arthur asks as he baits his hook with a couple of corn kernels.

John moves to dig his fingers into another patch of dirt.

“S’back in your tent,” John mutters, “Replaced the ammo.”

Arthur’s head cocks in surprise at that then he huffs as he casts out.

“Where’d you get the money for ammo?” The older man grumbles.

John doesn’t reply, standing up slowly and bending down to set the cup on the ground a few feet from Arthur.

“The hell?” The older man asks, “You ain’t leavin’ that here for someone else to clean up.”

Arthur realizes John hasn’t looked at him in over a week when the younger man tilts his head up just enough to stare down Arthur with tired eyes, before speaking slowly.

“I’ll come back n’ get it later.”

John turns and walks away, back into the center of camp.

Arthur frowns and leans over to look in, only for his expression to smooth in surprise.

A dozen grubs wriggling in the metal cup.

\--

Arthur realizes it's funny that fishing is boring when you ain't catching anything and just as boring when every cast gets a strike.

\--

John's in their tent when Arthur ducks in to put his pole back with his things, the older man's hands covered in river algae and fish.

John blinks up at him before returning to digging through his trunk of clothes.

Arthur's clothes, Dutch's, Hosea's.

Arthur heads straight for his little dresser and wipes his hands off on a rag after setting his pole down.

Then he hovers, aimlessly sorting through and rearranging his things.

He looks over after spotting the new box of ammo on his bedroll with his, obviously freshly cleaned, rifle.

John's kneeling in the far corner, and Arthur realizes that everything in the tent has been moved.

Or… Well…

All of _John's things_ have been moved, only taking up a small area in the corner, bedroll packed tight and bound with rope, leaning against the trunk and crate and saddlebags that John calls his own.

"You movin' out or somethin'?" Arthur asks.

John mutters a reply too quiet for the older man to understand and shucks his bloodied shirt off to pull on a clean one.

The dark purple stretches from the cap of John's shoulder almost all the way to the younger's knobby spine, each dip of John's ribs pronounced by the shadows the bruise creates.

"The hell'd you do now?" Arthur asks.

John looks back at him, brows furrowed in confusion as he works on tucking the new shirt into his pants.

Arthur recognizes it as one of his own.

One that'd caught on a branch and got a nasty rip up the side, Arthur having thrown it into the pile of old clothes to be turned into cleaning rags.

He can see the messy stitching now, when he looks for the tear, too messy to be Susan's.

"Sorry...?" John says slowly, obviously not sure what he's apologizing for.

Arthur waves him off.

"Your shoulder, John, how the hell'd you injure it like that?"

"I…" John scrunches his nose and goes back to tucking the too-big shirt in, muttering, "I told you I banged it when I was tryin' to hoodwink those guards in the alleys."

"Hoodwink?"

"Fool? Trick?" John asks in just as confused of a tone as Arthur, "Am I not usin' that word right?"

"How was runnin’ between buildings gonna _hoodwink_ them?"

"Got to them to go after me."

"You wanted them to chase you?"

"If they was chasin' me, means they wasn't chasin' you," John says like it makes absolute sense even though this whole time Arthur's been under the impression that John ran away after fucking everything up to save his own hide…

Not to try and save Arthur's.

Arthur rubs the back of his neck awkwardly then tosses the rag back onto his dresser and walks out of the tent.

\--

It's amusing to watch someone struggle.

Not in a serious way, not emotionally or mentally but the small physical struggle of being situationally stuck in a harmless way.

Like John sitting across the fire from Arthur, trying to pull off his boots.

The younger man is glaring at the boots, giving one last futile tug before huffing in exasperation and flopping back onto his bedroll.

"Someone pour glue in them?" Arthur murmurs as he shifts the sticks holding their dinner, a good-sized hare, over the fire.

John grumbles tiredly and rolls over to face away from the older man, curling up on his side.

Arthur scratches absently at his jaw and stares into the fire as he waits for the spatchcocked rabbit to heat through.

When he pokes at the meat and it has the right give and temperature he moves it carefully off the fire onto a little structure of trimmed twigs and long-grass that John had wrestled together.

"C'mon," Arthur says quietly, "Eat 'fore you sleep."

"Not hungry," John mutters but the way his shirt is pulling across his back highlights the depth at which the younger man's bones are protruding.

More than normal, more than Arthur's seen in a long time, not since they brought in the mangy half-skeletal kid with rope-burn on his neck.

"You should eat anyhow, ain’t seen you eat all day," Arthur insists.

"I ain't takin' your food," John grunts and rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in his bunched up coat.

"There's plenty 'nough."

John just grunts again, quieter, and settles down, going still.

"Fine," Arthur mutters and cuts off pieces of the meat, eating in silence.

\--

John has to lean over the side of his saddle, pulling Old Boy to a quick halt as he slides off and stumbles into the brush, retching.

Arthur calls Bo' to a stop also.

John heaves into the bushes for a few minutes before shakily straightening and coming back to his horse, climbing on with one hand pressed to his gut.

At Arthur's expectant look he just shrugs and gets Old Boy to start moving again.

"Must've been undercooked," John says, voice hoarse.

"I ate the same stew and I'm fine," Arthur says skeptically.

"I didn't eat the stew."

"What?" Arthur asks as he spurs Bo' into catching up, "Why not?"

Old Boy is a good three or four hands taller than Bo' and it means Arthur has to look up slightly at John.

Just to see the younger man sitting stiffly, expression blank.

"What, you gonna complain about Pearson's cookin’?" Arthur asks, irritated.

"It ain't mine," John says, voice as stiff as his posture.

"What are you talkin' 'bout?" Arthur asks, losing his patience.

"Your food ain't mine, you made that clear 'nough," John bites out, still rubbing his stomach.

Arthur sits back slightly in surprise.

Recalling all the little actions John's done over the last few weeks, how they all tie back to his angry outburst.

"What have you been eatin'?"

"Fish," John replies shortly.

"... You hate fish."

John grunts noncommittally.

"No, you _do,_ I know you do because whenever we have fish, you bitch and moan."

John's nose scrunches up in annoyance but he doesn't reply.

Arthur drops it, for now.

They're both quiet for the rest of the ride out to cabin marked on the map, supposedly a stash house.

The sky is growing dark and they should've been there hours ago but some of the roads had been flooded out, forcing them into taking a detour.

When they get to the hill that overlooks the cabin they both dismount and hitch their horses before moving together down the slope through the trees.

\--

The house is empty.

Relatively clean, furnished, but stripped of anything valuable.

"Damn," Arthur mutters as he opens the last drawer only to find cobwebs.

John's quietly looking through the cabinets in the kitchen but they're just as barren.

"Aw, shit," Arthur sighs and nudges the bed with his knee, "Well… We might as well stay here tonight."

\--

They bring the horses down the hill and bring their tack inside.

John grabs his bedroll and starts spreading it out on the far side of the room from the bed.

"What're you doin'?" Arthur asks as he sits on the edge of the mattress toeing off his boots.

"Goin’ to sleep," John says.

"Bed's pretty big," Arthur says awkwardly.

"I'm fine," John mutters and sits on the pad before struggling with his boots, only getting them to come off after methodically twisting and pulling for a few minutes.

"You oughta get new ones if those have warped that much," Arthur says as he strips down to his undergarments.

He'll probably get a few spider bites for it but he gets under the thick quilt when he lays down.

He doesn't care, it's soft and _a bed._

"They're fine," John mutters and pulls off his suspenders, followed by gun-belt and shirt.

Arthur sees the bruise on John's shoulder blade and notices it isn't healing all that well.

"You put somethin' on that yet?" Arthur asks.

"What?" John replies tiredly.

"Your shoulder."

"S'just a bruise, Arthur."

"Healin' awful slow."

John shrugs lopsidedly, obviously favoring the injury.

"Where you been sleepin'?"

John turns to squint at him.

"Why?"

"You ain't sleepin' in our tent."

"Your tent."

" _Our_ tent, John, I know what I said but it weren't true."

John's quiet for a moment, picking some burrs off his pant legs.

"Y'know how they say alcohol makes you more honest?" John's voice is soft, exhausted, "Anger's like that too."

"It is _our_ tent, _our_ food, _our_ gang," Arthur says carefully.

" _Your_ clothes," John says wryly, rubbing his thumb over a repair on the shirt in his lap.

“Yeah, my clothes,” Arthur snorts, “Did you sew that up? Looks like shit.”

“If I can fix it, why not?”

“You call that fixed?”

John frowns up at him and spreads out the shirt a little more.

“You bitch if I cost money but bitch still when I’m tryin’ not to?” John asks hoarsely, frustrated.

Arthur turns onto his side to face the younger man.

“All my clothes are hand-downs, Arthur, and I’m fine with that, but you know sometimes it’s annoyin’? That y’all get clothes that actually _fit?”_ John continues.

Arthur studies the younger man silently as John messily folds up the shirt and puts it near his boots.

Arthur’s gaze lingers on the boots.

“They too small?” The older man asks quietly with a gesture at the boots.

John huffs and sits back on his bedroll, looking up at the wooden beams supporting the roof.

“It’s _fine,_ ” John stresses, “They ain’t worn out yet.”

“But they _are_ too small?”

John sighs and tilts his head back down to look at Arthur.

“Yeah, Morgan, they’re a bit small.”

Arthur grunts and rubs at his chin absently.

John shifts and lays down on the bedroll, wrapping himself up in a blanket that’s seen better days.

Living as outlaws ain’t the life of luxury, Arthur knows that.

But his boots fit, his clothes are his own size, he can always count on at least one good meal a day.

He never really minded sharing a tent with John, it was just an old complaint he never got to voice.

In fact, he’d realized that between sleeping alone in their tent and sleeping out under the stars with John, he much prefers the latter, whatever it is about being close to the younger man that settles his soul and lets him sleep peacefully.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says softly, watching John tense under the blanket.

A few minutes pass before the younger man relaxes, slumping tiredly onto his back.

“S’okay,” John mutters, barely-awake.

Arthur makes a mental note to ride into town after they get back and pick up a few things before he’s lulled to sleep by John’s even breathing.

\--

Dutch’s plan actually pans out.

Completely, with only minor injuries.

Arthur laughs heartily at a passing joke from their leader as the gang is retiring in the wee hours, tired from the job and the following celebration.

Arthur’s surprised when John sits down on the ground next to him, passing over a bottle.

Arthur takes it and makes a face after taking a sip.

“Mead?”

“No,” John hums and leans back against the log behind them, “Moonshine.”

“Oh?” Arthur takes another sip, sticking out his tongue at the taste, “Awful sweet.”

“Better than whiskey,” John grumbles, “I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.”

John reaches for the bottle and Arthur moves it out of the younger man’s reach.

“Now now, I didn’t say that,” Arthur sniffs and takes another swig, “Was just surprised.”

John’s watching him intensely, still leaning towards him, before slowly sitting back.

Arthur turns back to the fire and takes another swig.

“Slow down,” John grumbles, “Shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“Then don’t,” Arthur says childishly.

John huffs in disbelief, trying hard and failing to hide his smile.

Arthur passes back the bottle and John drinks.

Then Arthur drinks.

Then John drinks.

\--

“‘M goin’ to bed,” John mutters and starts to try and stand up.

“You didn’t never say where you’s sleepin’,” Arthur slurs and rolls over onto his knees to stand up, wobbling slightly.

John’s having a harder time actually getting to his feet so Arthur leans down and helps the younger man up with a hand under John’s upper arm.

“Out by the horses,” John admits quietly, “In the broke wagon.”

Arthur frowns and has enough of his wits still about him that his stomach pangs with guilt.

“C’mon,” Arthur says and starts towards _their_ tent, pushing John along firmly with the grip on the younger man’s arm.

“Arthur,” John protests quietly when he realizes where they’re going.

“Hush.”

“ _Arthur,”_ John struggles against the older man when they reach the front of their tent, “I’m fine out there, I promise.”

“It’s silly,” Arthur insists, “You sleepin’ in a busted wagon when there’s a tent for you.”

“There ain’t a tent _for me._ There’s a tent for _you,_ and I’m sorry you never got a choice in that,” John says miserably.

Arthur tilts his head to one side with a sigh.

“I want you to,” Arthur mutters.

“Want me to what?” John asks and even now sounds so damned eager to please Arthur, like any opportunity to do something for the older man is one he _has_ to take.

Because Arthur made him think he wasn’t good enough the way he was.

Arthur grunts uncomfortably and nudges John towards the tent.

“Sleep with me.”

John’s brows furrow, lifting in the middle, looking horribly confused, eyes a little wide.

“C’mon,” Arthur mutters and nudges John until the younger man ducks into their tent.

John stumbles in and stands uncertainly in the middle as Arthur starts shedding layers.

“Should I… Should I get out my bed?” John asks quietly.

Arthur looks over at him and then to the corner where John’s bedroll still is.

“Nah, leave it,” Arthur points to his own bed, “Just lay down.”

John pulls off his shirt and accessories before sitting down next to Arthur’s bedroll, struggling with his boots.

Arthur huffs a laugh and thumps down onto the bedroll, shoving John’s hands out of the way and grasping the back of John’s calf with one hand, yanking the boot off with his other hand.

Then yanking off the other boot.

When he looks up John’s watching him intensely, looking far more sober than Arthur feels.

John scoots back to strip down to his drawers, coming back to kneel next to Arthur where the older man is propped up on his elbows, watching John but not really focusing.

“What d’you want me to do?” John asks hesitantly.

Arthur fights with the blanket for a minute before lifting it up, nodding at John to get under with him.

John slowly sits next to Arthur and slides down so he’s mostly under the blanket.

Arthur lets the wool fall over them before prodding at John until the younger man turns on his side and Arthur can press against his back.

John bites back a strangled sound when Arthur’s fingers curiously press into the bruise on his shoulder.

“You alright?”

“Just… nervous,” John whispers.

“What?” Arthur asks as he rubs lightly over the edges of the injury.

“‘M fine, though,” John says hurriedly.

“What’re you nervous ‘bout?”

“Didn’t think this is how I’d-” John cuts himself short.

“How you’d what?” Arthur slurs.

“I ain’t done anythin’, yet, if that matters,” John says hoarsely.

Arthur tilts his head in confusion, blinking at the back of the younger man’s head.

“What’re you on about?”

“I’m not sayin’ _no,”_ John tries to backtrack, “If that’s what you… What’ll make you…”

John shifts and curls up slightly before setting his shoulders and pressing his ass back against Arthur’s front.

“Whoa,” Arthur says hurriedly, brain sluggish with alcohol as it tries to catch up, “ _Whoa.”_

John tenses hard and shakes his head.

“I dunno what to do…” John admits.

“What’re you…?” Arthur grunts and tightens the hand that had moved to John’s hip on instinct alone when the younger man rocked back against him, “What?”

There’s a warmth building in him, regardless of his confusion.

“Sorry,” John whispers, “I dunno if you thought I’d be good at this or what.”

“John, genuinely, what the hell are you on about?” Arthur asks, trying to speak as clearly as possible.

“You can fuck me or whatever but I’m sayin’ I don’t know _how,”_ John stresses.

“I can _what?”_ Arthur asks loudly.

John hurriedly turns over and presses a clammy palm to Arthur’s mouth.

“Jesus, Arthur,” He mutters, “Don’t wake e’ryone up.”

Arthur’s staring at him, outright shocked.

The older man grabs his hand and pulls it down to uncover his mouth.

“You thought I wanted to _what?”_ Arthur asks hoarsely, stomach churning, unsettled, suddenly feeling both like this is a drunken-dream and like someone doused him in the ice-water of sobriety.

“You…” John whispers, studying the older man’s face with his brows drawn together, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

Arthur rapidly shakes his head and leans away from the younger man.

“ _Sleep,_ I want you to sleep with me in the tent because I ain’t been sleepin’ well since you stopped comin’ here at night.”

“... Oh,” John whispers and pulls back his hand from Arthur’s grasp.

The younger man rubs at his mouth and ducks his head.

“You were just gonna let me…” Arthur says thickly, “Weren’t you?”

“Sorry,” John murmurs.

“Don’t apologize for _that,_ good God, John,” Arthur says sharply and tries to calm himself when the younger man flinches away.

John continues rubbing at his mouth, staring at Arthur’s chest like he could count every single hair, freckle, and scar there.

“Jesus,” Arthur mutters and pushes the heel of his palm into the middle of his forehead like it could clear the fuzzy feeling in his head.

John shifts and pillows an arm under his head, pressing his cheek against the bedroll, still staring blankly at Arthur’s chest before sighing and covering his face.

“I thought…” John starts to whisper before going quiet.

Arthur pushes his hand back through his hair and looks down at John.

“God, you were right,” John mutters, sitting up and rubbing roughly at his face, “I get a chance to prove…”

The younger man trails off and shoves the blanket away, crawling over to collect his clothes.

“John…” Arthur says slowly.

“I do, don’t I?” John asks, turning back around on his knees to look at Arthur, “I just screw up everythin’, _every_ chance.”

“What did you… Why would you let me-?” Arthur inhales sharply as the thought settles in mind, realizing that John had been trying to tell him that the younger man was a _virgin._

And that John was misguidedly willing to give himself to Arthur in an effort to…

“What would that have _changed?”_ Arthur asks incredulously.

“I don’t _know,”_ John stutters out, “If I could make you like me by lettin’ you…”

John shakes his head slowly.

“It was a dumb idea, Arthur, I just seem to get duller every damned day,” John mutters, sitting back on his heels gripping his shirt in white-knuckled fists, having abandoned his idea of getting dressed and retreating to the busted wagon.

“I like you plenty, John, and I told you I didn’t mean what I said that day,” Arthur says as he sits up.

“Yeah, sure, but you sayin’ it made me realize it was true,” John says sharply.

“You know what happened when Dutch got upset with me, the first couple-a years after he took me in?”

“...No.”

“I would do everythin’ to try to win back his favor, I’d take any job, work until my fingers bled and there was cash in the lockbox,” Arthur sighs deeply, “And he let me, thought it would make me stronger. Hosea eventually caught on and stepped in.”

John’s studying his face, looking less angry and more upset.

“And I’ve been lettin’ you do the same shit the last few weeks,” Arthur flops back down, crossing his arms loosely over his chest.

John rubs the fabric between his fingertips and presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

“I dunno what I’m ‘pposed to say to that,” John murmurs.

“Just come lay back down, I’m sure no one’s expectin’ an early start,” Arthur says softly and lifts the blanket back up in offering.

John slowly crawls back over and slips in next to Arthur, laying down stiffly.

Arthur realizes the younger man is still holding the shirt tightly in one fist.

“Come with me into town this afternoon,” Arthur says.

“Why?” John mumbles and turns onto his side to face Arthur, curling up and clutching the shirt against his chest.

“Get you some proper clothes,” Arthur says, “New boots.”

John sniffs and stares at Arthur’s shoulder, not meeting the older man’s eyes.

“Why’re you holdin’ onto that like it’s keepin’ you from cryin’?” Arthur asks roughly.

“Hah,” John huffs then twists the fabric tightly between his fists, “Kinda is, I suppose. It’s… the first one y’all gave me, one of yours.”

“Really?” Arthur asks incredulously, “And you’re still wearin’ it?”

“... Sometimes.”

“You wanna say _why?”_

John wriggles onto his stomach and presses his face into the bedroll instead of answering.

Arthur huffs quietly and gently nudges the younger man’s shoulder with his elbow, receiving a slightly pained grunt in response.

“Alright, fine,” Arthur relents and turns onto his side, facing John.

He reaches over and ruffles John’s hair softly.

John doesn’t bat away his hand like he usually does, looking at Arthur out of the corner of his eye before slowly shutting his eyes and pressing into the touch.

Arthur feels his brows furrow in confusion before his expression softens and he combs his fingers through John’s hair gently.

“G’night,” John whispers.

Arthur realizes just how many nights have passed since he’s heard that and lets his hand fall to the back of the younger man’s neck, squeezing lightly.

“Goodnight, John.”

\--

Arthur wakes up to John nuzzling into his chest.

He blinks hard and reaches up to rub the sleep out of his eyes before looking down at John.

The younger man is curled up against Arthur’s front, trapping one of the older man’s arms under his head.

Still hugging Arthur’s old shirt.

Arthur tilts his head back and forth to crack his neck as the memories of last night start to filter to the front of his mind.

“Ah… Damn,” He mutters and frowns down at John’s arm wrapped tightly around his waist.

“You trust me too much, Kid,” Arthur murmurs.

“Don’t think that’s possible,” John mutters back.

Arthur tenses in surprise and leans back as far as John’s grip will allow to look at the younger man.

“Mornin’,” John whispers.

Arthur grunts in response and rubs at his temple.

“How’re you not sufferin’ right now?” Arthur grumbles.

“Didn’t start drinkin’ ‘til I joined you.”

“So you… You remember everythin’? Arthur asks quietly.

John takes a minute to respond and then slowly nods.

“Shit,” Arthur sighs, “Was hopin’ you’d be spared that.”

John gives a small shrug and his arm over Arthur’s waist loosens.

His other hand gripping the shirt tighter.

Arthur sighs and leans back in.

John glances up at him then wiggles closer, pressing his forehead back against Arthur’s sternum.

“Sorry,” John whispers.

“I ain’t gonna lie, I’m a lil’ upset,” Arthur says quietly, “That you think that I’d just... _demand_ that of you.”

Arthur can feel John’s brows furrow against his chest.

“I don’t think you would’ve done nothin’ had I actually said _no,”_ John insists.

Arthur frowns down at the crown of John’s head.

“You still thought I’d let you just…” Arthur struggles, “That it’d be okay to _sell_ yourself for my approval?”

“Just shut up, Arthur,” John pleads and butts his head against the older man.

“Not until I get this through your fool skull, John,” Arthur says firmly.

“ _Look,”_ John says harshly and pulls back to level with Arthur seriously, “You can say it a hundred ways and it ain’t gonna change what happened.”

“I know that,” Arthur argues, “But-”

“But nothin’, Morgan, you ain’t gotta keep sayin’ you’d never fuck me,” John bites out.

Arthur moves one hand to cover John’s mouth, his other hand to the back of John’s head, holding the younger man in place.

“Lower your damned voice,” Arthur hisses.

John’s nostrils flare angrily

“That’s your takeaway?” Arthur asks, growing frustrated, “I’m tryin’ to tell you to care more ‘bout yourself.”

John glares at him, looking like a cornered animal.

“What if I had been drunker? What if I hadn’t realized what you meant by ‘ain’t done anythin’ yet’, huh?” Arthur whispers sharply.

John’s eyes are flicking rapidly over the older man’s face, brows heavily furrowed.

“I could’ve _hurt_ you, you get that?”

John looks away for a moment and then back again.

Then says something, muffled against Arthur’s palm.

Arthur squints at him for a moment then slowly pulls his hand away from John’s mouth.

“I don’t think you could,” John whispers earnestly, “Not physically, even if I asked for it.”

Arthur starts to protest, tell John how _foolish_ and _naive_ that notion is but John barrels on.

“You ain’t never lifted a hand to me,” John whispers, “Not even jokingly. You don’t even smack me up the backside my head like Dutch and Hosea do when I say somethin’ stupid.”

Arthur grimaces and shifts, uncomfortable with John calling him out like this.

“If you think you’d be blackout drunk, but still sober enough to get it up, and yet somehow not have the mind to be as damned soft as you always are… Then you’re the fool here, not me,” John says hoarsely.

Arthur takes a deep breath in and avoids the younger man’s eyes.

“You think I’d trust anyone else like that?” John asks, “That I wouldn’t pitch the fit of the century if I didn’t wa-… If I wasn’t okay with doin’ somethin’ like that?”

“John,” Arthur grunts and moves his hand back up to cover John’s mouth.

John rolls his eyes and settles down, letting the weight of his head rest in Arthur’s hand where it cups the back of his neck, watching the older man.

Watching Arthur’s face struggle through a series of emotions even as the older man still avoids his eyes.

Finally settling on exhaustion when he meets John’s eyes.

“How long you been up?” Arthur asks quietly, lifting his hand just enough for John to speak.

“Couple hours,” John murmurs against the skin of Arthur’s palm.

“Anyone else up?”

John shakes his head minutely.

Arthur sighs quietly and pulls away to turn onto his back.

John flops onto his stomach and crosses his arms under his head.

“Still wanna take you out today,” Arthur mumbles, “But not yet.”

“You wanna go back to sleep?” John asks.

“Hm,” Arthur rubs at his mouth slowly, “Yeah, I think I could.”

“Okay,” John murmurs and moves to kneel, “Got some chores to do.”

Arthur’s hand darts out and grabs John’s wrist, causing the younger man to startle.

“You ain’t got shit to do,” Arthur whispers, “Stay here.”

John studies the older man and then slowly lays back down next to Arthur.

“You were serious ‘bout not sleepin’ well?” John asks softly, resting his chin on his forearm.

“... Yeah.”

“Okay,” John scoots closer and slides his other arm over Arthur’s stomach, squeezing the older man.

\--

When Arthur wakes up again it’s to a gentle hand pushing down on his chest.

He peers out of one barely-open eye and sees John crouched next to him holding a bowl.

“Hey,” John says quietly, “It’s almost dark.”

“Ah, shit,” Arthur says hoarsely, throat dry.

“You feelin’ okay?”

“Why didn’t you get me up earlier?”

“Trust me,” John snorts, “I tried. You just went n’ decided to hibernate today.”

“Damn,” Arthur sighs and sits up, displacing John’s hand.

“Here,” The younger man says, as soon as Arthur is upright, holding the bowl out for Arthur, “Dinner.”

“Did you eat?” Arthur asks as he takes the bowl.

“I ate, yeah,” John says softly.

Arthur studies him for a moment to see if the younger man is lying.

John rolls his eyes and stands, moving to the corner and kneeling in front of his pile of things.

Arthur watches the younger’s hands hover uncertainly over the packed-up bedroll before grabbing it and turning around, looking at Arthur for permission.

Arthur swallows against the tight feeling around his heart and nods his encouragement before taking another bite.

John shuffles closer and starts untying the rope before spreading out the mat.

Arthur notices it’s a little closer than it was before but he’s not willing to point it out.

Everything in this moment feels so precarious, their rocky reconciliation only made more unstable by the misunderstanding last night.

Arthur shifts and crosses his legs at the warmth and loathing that start to fill him, thinking about John pressed against him and…

Arthur sniffs hard and takes another bite.

“Guess we’ll have to head out tomorrow,” Arthur mutters.

John pauses in smoothing out his blanket and looks up at the older man through his hair, tense where he’s balanced on his knees and one hand.

“We don’t gotta…”

“You did well, this last job,” Arthur says lightly, “I think you deserve a lil’ reward.”

John sits back on his heels to look at Arthur, hands in loose fists on his thighs.

“I was hopin’ to buy a new bridle for Ol’ Boy,” John says slowly, “His has been comin’ ‘part for a while.”

“Alright?”

“I don’t… I don’t really need new clothes, Arthur.”

“I’m gonna buy ‘em for you if that’s what you’re worried ‘bout,” Arthur says softly.

"Arthur," John protests.

“I don’t mind, John, honest.”

John sighs and flops down on top of his bedroll, watching Arthur as the older man eats.

“I ain’t gonna win this, am I?”

Arthur sniffs and scrunches his nose to fight back a grin.

“‘Course not.”

\--

John falls asleep almost as soon as it’s dark and stays asleep like a rock.

Arthur can’t seem to let go of consciousness, and he has a worrying theory as to what’ll solve his problem.

He stares across the several foot gap at John with a grimace.

“John,” He murmurs.

The lump under the blanket shifts minutely then settles again.

Arthur huffs and rolls towards the younger man, reaching out to poke John’s shoulder.

John hisses, waking up rapidly and flinching away.

“Jesus, fuck, ow,” John mutters, moving to cover his shoulder before squinting at Arthur, “What?”

“Your shoulder still hurtin’ that bad?” Arthur asks worriedly.

“Yeah, fuck, I dunno…” John grunts, rubbing around the edge of the injury, “What’s wrong?”

“C’mere,” Arthur says softly and John lifts up his blanket to crawl over without hesitation.

“What? You change your mind?” The younger asks tiredly.

“No, no,” Arthur says quickly, “Lay down with me, I can’t sleep.”

“Pro’ly ‘cause you slept all damn day,” John mutters but slips under Arthur’s blanket when the older man lifts it up.

“Turn ‘round,” Arthur says hesitantly.

John rolls over so his back is facing Arthur and the older man carefully pulls him back so he can sling an arm over John’s waist.

John huffs quietly in amusement.

Arthur makes a questioning noise.

“M’turnin’ into your personal stuffed toy,” John mutters tiredly but wiggles closer to Arthur anyway, laying his own arm over Arthur’s.

Arthur grumbles at the implication of him being a child.

“S’fine, Art,” John says through a yawn and nuzzles into his other arm, pillowed under his head.

Arthur blinks in surprise at the nickname he hasn’t heard in a couple of years, having assumed John had grown out of it.

If he’s honest, he’s missed it.

If he’s more honest, he’d love for John to start calling him that again.

“I hope you sleep,” John murmurs.

Arthur smiles in surprise at that soft admission and squeezes John lightly.

\--

He sleeps so damn well, he almost hopes he’ll never have to sleep without John again.

\--

John’s restless, early the next morning, and it wakes Arthur up.

The older man pulls back his arm from around John’s wriggling form and the younger man immediately turns over and presses close, no space between them, John bullishly pushing his leg between Arthur’s thighs.

The older man huffs quietly and re-wraps his arm around John’s waist as the younger clings to him.

He can feel John’s hardness against his hip and wills himself to ignore it.

It gets more difficult to ignore when John makes a small sound in his sleep and his hips move ever-so-slightly.

Arthur presses his lips together and closes his eyes tightly, resting his chin on the crown of John’s head, feeling the younger man’s hand twitching between their chests where it’s trapped between them.

John’s murmuring again, which isn’t all that uncommon, the younger man having always had the tendency to talk unintelligibly in his sleep.

Arthur barely makes out his name, and takes in a shaky breath before gently grabbing the younger man’s arm with the aim of waking John up.

“Kid, c’mon,” Arthur grunts and squeezes John’s bicep lightly.

John gasps softly and his head jerks back, looking up at Arthur hazily, eyes heated with obvious arousal.

“Arthur,” John whispers hoarsely and it sounds so much like something said in a moment of pleasure that Arthur clenches his jaw, _want_ flooding him.

“Ah, shit,” John mutters, looking down before pulling back completely, “Sorry.”

“S’fine,” Arthur says quickly and rolls onto his back, bending his knees slightly in an effort to conceal his own growing arousal.

John flops onto his back, rubbing his heated face tiredly.

“What were you…?” Arthur bites down sharply on his tongue, not intending to let the question bouncing loudly around his mind slip out.

But John said his _name,_ was dreaming of _Arthur._

John’s quiet for a moment and Arthur almost has hope that the younger man didn’t hear him.

“I… Uh,” John swallows loudly and rubs at the side of his neck awkwardly.

“You don’t have to, I didn’t mean to…” Arthur whispers quickly.

“Night ‘fore last,” John says simply, barely louder than a whisper.

“What?” Arthur asks incredulously, “What about it?”

“If you _had,_ I mean,” John says hoarsely, “That’s what I was dreamin’.”

Arthur covers his face with one hand, despising himself a little more when he feels his cock hardening further.

“Sorry,” John mutters.

“I thought you said you was scared, that night,” Arthur says roughly.

“Said I was nervous,” John corrects, “I wasn’t never _scared.”_

Arthur rubs the side of his index finger over his mouth roughly, staring at the ceiling of the tent in the dim morning light.

“You really woulda let me…?”

“You?” John asks quietly, “Yeah. Anyone else? Nah.”

Arthur breathes out slowly against his hand, focusing on his warm breath against his skin.

“You wouldn’t want me to be your first, Kid,” Arthur says harshly.

“Why not?” John asks genuinely.

Arthur glances over to see the younger man watching him, one of John’s hands clenched low on his stomach, only a few inches above the obvious bulge.

Arthur looks back up to John’s face, the younger man’s dark eyes still hazy with sleep and heat.

“Plenty o’ reasons,” Arthur says stiffly before turning back to the tent ceiling.

“I can’t think of any,” John mutters.

“Jesus,” Arthur huffs, “For starters, I ain’t exactly _virgin_ friendly.”

“... What?” John asks and Arthur can practically feel the younger’s gaze burning into him.

“Figure it out,” Arthur says roughly.

“Oh…” Arthur hears John say shakily after a minute, “ _Oh.”_

Arthur grunts uncomfortably and rubs his jaw roughly before crossing his arms.

“ _Christ,”_ John whispers, high pitched, and had it been any louder Arthur would’ve called it a whine.

Arthur looks back over to the younger man and sees John’s eyes shut tight, the hand on his lower stomach twisted in the waistband of his drawers.

“I’m gonna,” Arthur starts, hoarsely, “Gonna start the coffee.”

John covers his face with both hands, murmuring his ascent.

Arthur throws on some clothes and is barely out of the tent when he hears John’s first stuttering gasp.

He cracks his neck and glances around for anyone else before adjusting himself through his pants.

Another muffled sound from behind him has him hightailing it towards the main fire, glad no one else is up yet to see his burning-red cheeks.

\--

John joins him about forty-five minutes later and sits at the fire, hair still dripping from washing up, avoiding Arthur’s eyes as he gets his own coffee.

“Shops’ll be open by the time we get in,” Arthur says softly, “If we head out in an hour or so.”

“Alright,” John says hoarsely before clearing his throat and sipping his coffee.

Arthur presses his lips together and knocks his knee against John’s, causing the younger to tense.

“S’okay, y’know?” Arthur asks quietly.

John peaks at him through his messy hair, studying the older man.

Arthur flusters and stands, mussing up John’s hair lightly.

“I’ll get the horses ready.”

\--

John goes to the tack shop first and picks out a sleek, black, leather bridle for Old Boy, immediately switching out the weathered one, the same he’d had since they’d gotten the Draft as a colt on the threshold of adulthood.

He fiddles with it for as long as he can, trying to come up with a good excuse to beg out, to get Arthur to come to his senses and not use his share on John.

Arthur notices.

Lays a gentle hand on John’s good shoulder and maneuvers him down the road to the general store.

\--

He manages to settle with John.

Three shirts, two new pairs of pants, some new drawers, and new boots.

Arthur tries to add in a new satchel and belt but John glares at him until he submits and puts them back.

John carefully tucks the new clothes into his saddlebags and ties the new boots together by looping rope through the bootstraps, one hanging on either side behind the saddle.

John hops up to mount Old Boy and rubs the scruff on his chin awkwardly, looking over at Arthur who’s waiting on him.

“Thanks,” John says quietly.

“Just be sure to whine about your problems more often,” Arthur teases then takes off before John can fully process.

“Hey!” John shouts after him when he registers what Arthur said, grumbling as he spurs Old Boy to follow.

\--

John pulls on a pair of winter socks and his new boots before finding a tree with just enough shade that he won’t burn while his boots can warm up, in hopes it’ll break them in a little faster.

Arthur was called to Dutch’s tent almost as soon as they got back to camp.

John lets his head rest against the bark and watches the entrance to Dutch’s tent.

\--

Arthur looks annoyed.

That’s the first thing John notices, lifting his head at the appearance of the older man, flexing his toes inside his new boots.

Arthur goes to talk to Hosea about something, leaning on the table Hosea is sitting at.

Hosea’s head cocks back in surprise and John _really_ wishes he could hear what they’re saying.

Hosea glances over at him and John tries not to look too caught out.

Arthur glances at John also, then quickly back to Hosea, saying something to recapture the older man’s attention.

\--

They talk for a good ten minutes, all the while John has to sit and twiddle his thumbs with the knowledge that they are, at the very least, talking about something pertaining to him, if not directly about him.

Then Arthur comes around the table and claps Hosea on the shoulder.

Before walking directly towards John.

John fidgets and pulls his feet close to poke at his boots, trying to look like he’s been doing anything but focusing entirely on Arthur and Hosea’s conversation.

“C’mon, Kid, we gotta pack,” Arthur says and holds a hand out to John.

John’s face scrunches in confusion but he takes the offer anyway, letting Arthur pull him up.

“Where we goin’?”

Arthur squeezes his hand then sighs quietly.

“We’re goin’ coward huntin’.”

\--

“Why’d you look so pissed ‘fore you talked to Hosea?” John asks quietly as they pack up, both men kneeling in their tent, tightly binding their bedrolls.

“Dutch just…” Arthur quirks his mouth uncertainly, “He just caught me off guard, then tried to get me to do this job with _Bill_ of all people.”

“So why am I goin’?”

Arthur shifts and stands, tossing his bedroll next to his saddlebags.

“‘Cause I asked for you to.”

“You chose me?” John asks in surprise.

Arthur’s nose scrunches, uncomfortable with this vulnerability.

“Even after…” John trails off, scratching lightly at his forearm, anxiety manifesting as a physical action.

“Told you s’fine,” Arthur mutters roughly.

John ducks his head as heat builds in his face…

And then his gut.

“So who’s the coward?” John asks softly.

“Some bastard who wronged Dutch a while back,” Arthur shoved his journal into his satchel then snatched up John’s bedroll too, “C’mon let’s get goin’ so we can make a decent headway ‘fore dark.”

\--

Old Boy seems almost happier with his new halter, none of the rough, cracked leather against his face now.

And John’s just as happy in his new boots, regardless of the blisters he’s sure will come soon enough.

Constantly stomping down the excitement to wear his new clothes during this job.

Though he still packed his favorite old shirts, all once belonging to Arthur.

“You ready to stop for the night?” Arthur calls back to him from a few paces ahead on the narrow trail.

“Wouldn’t object to it… We got up kinda early,” John says hesitantly.

Sometimes Arthur asked neutral questions that made it hard to gauge what answer the older man was actually hoping for.

Arthur hums and John can hear the crinkling of a map.

“Alright, s’a river down on the right,” Arthur says, craning his head to look back at John, “Sound good?”

John nods readily.

“Pretty clear tonight, might not need the tent,” John says, looking up at the cloudless skies, the beginnings of the sunset coloring the horizon pink and peach.

“Should be fine,” Arthur agrees.

\--

They head down the hillside and work their way through the thick to get to the bank of the river, finding a decent patch of dirt to start making a firepit.

The horses are happy with the patches of some kind of weed they seem to find delicious.

John carefully builds a fire while Arthur sets out their bedrolls and disappears into the woods with his rifle.

John hears one shot, clear and clean, and then the gradually increasing sound of footsteps on pine-needles as Arthur returns.

With a hare, even bigger than the one a week ago.

John makes another shelf with the reeds that grow at the water’s edge and some branches to roast it.

It’s… Such an odd relief, to slip off his boots with ease for the first time in months.

Arthur watches him, sees the younger man staring at the boots almost reverently as John sets them at the end of his bedroll before pulling his legs close to sit with them crossed.

John looks over at him only to jerk back slightly in surprise when he finds Arthur looking at him in return.

“How they fit?” Arthur asks quietly.

“Real good…” John says and presses his lips together before nodding slowly, “Thank you.”

Arthur tries to wave him off, poking at the meat to give himself something to do other than look like a fool who can’t take praise.

“Mean it, Art,” John murmurs and the older man feels his chest go light and full at the same time, like he’s breathing sunshine, hearing that nickname from John’s mouth again.

“Kinda nice,” Arthur blurts out, then bites down sharply on his tongue.

“... Nice?” John’s nose is scrunched in confusion and Arthur kicks himself mentally for the slip.

Seems, lately, he can’t hold his tongue around the younger man.

“Nice… To buy things for someone,” Arthur says roughly, ducking his head and rearranging the stones containing the fire with a stick.

“You like spendin’ your money on me?” John asks incredulously.

“You wouldn’t get it,” Arthur tries to brush off, mentally willing the hare to cook faster so he can shove the meat in John’s mouth and shut him up.

Arthur swallows hard as he replays that thought…

Except it ain’t that kinda meat.

“Then explain it,” John says simply, just shy of being a demand, and Arthur’s a bit happy to see the younger man slowly returning to his bratty, bullish nature.

Sure that he’ll regret that soon enough.

If not already.

“It’s just… Nice. Nice to do nice things, but nicer when it’s for people you care ‘bout, yeah?” Arthur tries to explain.

Looks up to see John studying him intensely.

“Like you used to do for Mary,” John says slowly.

Arthur flusters and ducks his head again, heavily resisting the urge to flee under the pretense of taking a piss or something...

Anything.

“Kinda,” He mutters, instead.

Sees John sit back heavily on his hands from under his lashes.

“Alright,” John says, still producing each word slowly, processing, “Similar, but it ain’t the same?”

Arthur rubs at his scruff and shrugs.

Reaches forward to check the meat and praises God when it feels done.

He moves the shelf off of the fire and onto some rocks, taking out his knife and muttering in John’s direction.

“Come over here.”

He glances up just enough to see John hop from the edge of his bedroll to Arthur’s, huffing his amusement at the younger man’s attempt to keep his socks clean.

John plops down next to him, curling up comfortably against Arthur’s blanket.

The fabric mounded into a makeshift pillow.

Arthur uses his knife to hold out a chunk of meat to John and watches the younger man take it nimbly.

“ _This_ one of them things?” John asks before ripping a piece off the grain with his teeth.

“One of what things?”

“Nice things?”

“Ah,” Arthur chews at the inside of his cheek as he slices off some for himself, “More just wantin’ to see you eat.”

John pointedly rips off another chunk while holding Arthur’s gaze before stuffing it into his cheek.

“Hello of-a lot better than fish,” John jokes.

Arthur smiles briefly before his brows furrow and he idly eats, not really tasting.

Perfunctory, consumed momentarily by the guilt that’s been building, as each effect of his words on John is brought to light.

John’s socked feet shoving their way into his lap gets him to snap out of it, glancing at the younger man who’s made himself perfectly at home, taking over most of Arthur’s bedroll and the older man’s lap.

John smiles at him tiredly before rubbing at his cheek with the base of his thumb.

Arthur shakes his head lightly and grabs another piece of meat, handing it off to John who wriggles into the fabric behind him and closes his eyes while eating.

They fall into a comfortable silence, Arthur nudging pieces of meat into John’s hand when the younger man finishes the previous one.

“Do I have to move?” John grunts, half-asleep, peeking one eye open to look at Arthur.

The older man throws the bones into the fire, wipes the grease off his fingers, and rests his hands on John’s ankles.

“Nah, we’re close enough to the trails that we oughta take shifts,” Arthur says.

Despite John’s quiet protests Arthur feels content.

The younger man falls asleep a few minutes later, shuffling onto his side, his legs turning and shins pressing into Arthur’s stomach.

Arthur somewhat wishes he could’ve grabbed his journal before John went and decided to fall asleep _on_ him.

He rubs at his face idly and cages in the younger man’s legs by resting an elbow on his own knee.

Then he looks over at John’s sleep-slack expression, the younger man having one hand pressed up under his chin, the other arm wrapped around himself.

Arthur sighs quietly and rubs at his face some more before covering his eyes.

Wondering when these _soft_ feelings started, and how to get rid of them.

\--

He spends the next few hours trying to decipher John’s mumbling and rubbing his knuckles lightly over the side of John’s calf when the younger man seems unsettled by his dreams.

Eventually, he feels like he might fall asleep sitting upright so he rocks the younger man with a firm grip on the outside of John’s thigh.

John grumbles as he wakes up reaching down to swat at Arthur’s hand.

“C’mon,” Arthur murmurs, “Switch with me.”

“Ugh,” John groans and sits up, slowly moving to pull his legs off Arthur’s lap before pressing the backs of his hands against his eyes.

“How long did you let me sleep?” John asks hoarsely.

“Too long,” Arthur jokes and nudges John until the younger stands, hopping back over to his own bedroll.

Arthur lays down roughly and pushes at the blanket, trying to get it into a more comfortable shape.

Then he notices the line of a different colored fabric in one of the folds of wool.

Arthur presses his tongue into his cheek and pulls out the other fabric before wadding it up and throwing it at John.

The younger man startles from his tending of the fire when the ball of cotton hits his chest and falls into his lap.

It’s his shirt.

The first shirt.

“Oh,” John says softly before twisting up the shirt and setting it beside his leg.

“Oh?” Arthur echoes in amusement.

John flushes and ducks his head pushes the shirt further under his leg like he can make it disappear.

Arthur snorts indelicately and shoves the blanket back under his head, closing his eyes.

\--

John lets the older man sleep the rest of the night, keeping the fire going until the first light of dawn.

When the birds start singing Arthur stirs, uncrossing his legs and rubbing at his stomach.

“Mornin’,” John says quietly, looking up from his aimless whittling.

“Damn, s’it mornin’?” Arthur mumbles finally opening his eyes to see the pale purple sky.

“Uh-huh.”

“Shoulda woke me up,” Arthur grunts as he sits up slowly, covering his mouth as he yawns widely.

“We have some peaches?” John asks, fighting back a yawn of his own.

“You wanna get into rations already?” Arthur mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Arthur looks over when there’s no immediate answer.

John’s shaving off slivers of wood, sucking on his cheeks.

Arthur sighs quietly and rubs at his temples roughly.

“... John,” Arthur starts quietly.

“Don’t,” John mutters, “Forget it.”

“No. _No,_ not this time, Kid, we gotta talk ‘bout this,” Arthur says firmly, “You can’t go n’ get upset every time food’s brought up.”

“Arthur,” John says roughly, “I mean it, drop it.”

“John, you cannot-”

Arthur stops himself when the round shape of carved wood hits him in the shoulder, his expression falling flat with annoyance.

He grinds his teeth slowly and looks up at John who’s frowning harshly at him.

“Really?” Arthur asks quietly.

John’s nostrils flare in anger and the younger moves to pull his boots on, getting one in his hands before remembering what they are.

Who bought them.

John’s fingers clench around the leather in frustration.

“Why is this such a hard thing for you to get over?” Arthur asks.

“S’scary,” John mutters, rubbing his thumb over a line of waxed-thread stitching, “Brings up bad thoughts.”

“Like what?”

John swallows nervously and follows the grooves of tooling with the back of his fingernail.

“Just… If I ain’t worth my weight… If I ain’t got a purpose with y’all,” John says hoarsely, “If I ain’t _special,_ if I ain’t _favored,_ then what’s guaranteeing I’m gonna be kept?”

Arthur frowns as he processes not just the words but the weight of the fear behind each syllable.

“These thoughts start happenin’ ‘fore the shit I said?” Arthur asks quietly.

John shifts and cleans some of the dirt out of the join between wood and leather at the heel.

“They were ‘round a lot, in the beginnin’, you just kinda… Brought ‘em all back.”

“S’that why you… You were prepared to get fucked ‘cause you thought it’d keep you safe?” Arthur asks, voice thick.

“... I suppose, yeah,” John mutters and lifts the boot, “What happens if you get mad at me, n’ want these back?”

“They ain’t conditional, John, I bought them _for_ you.”

“So you don’t think I owe you for all that?” John tilts his head with his face low, glancing up at Arthur through his lashes.

“What’s the point in havin’ money and not spendin’ it? The way we live you think there’s a point in savin’ for somethin’?”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

“No, I don’t. How would you even repay me?”

John lifts his head to look at Arthur, more serious an expression than Arthur practically ever sees on the younger man.

“Any way you want,” John says evenly.

John watches the older man’s expression wrinkle and smooth several times as Arthur works through that offer.

“You really do trust me too much,” Arthur mutters finally and covers his face with one hand.

“Lots of things I could do, even if you ain’t ‘virgin friendly’,” John says slowly.

“John,” Arthur warns.

“I know I ain’t gonna be good at it from the get-go but I can learn,” John says sincerely and Arthur’s gut clenches.

Lust and guilt in equal measures.

“ _John,”_ Arthur says, a lower, harsher warning.

“Blank canvas, s’what they say, right?” John edges onward, “You could teach me, show me just what you like…”

The touch of desperation, like a shadow under each word, turns Arthur’s stomach.

_“Stop.”_

John sets down the boot slowly, going completely still.

“Christ, Kid,” Arthur whispers against his own palm.

There’s a moment of just Arthur’s deep breathing.

“You’re hard,” John says quietly, not a question but an observation.

Arthur exhales shakily, because yeah, he is, and he feels so _damned_ bad about it.

“S’okay,” He hears John murmur and the younger man’s voice is suddenly closer.

He lowers his hand to cover his mouth, only to see John standing at the edge of Arthur’s bedroll.

He watches the younger man lower himself to his knees between Arthur’s splayed calves.

Arthur’s gaze flicks rapidly over John’s expression.

The hesitance, the honest eagerness, the _heat._

“I ain’t lettin’ you do anythin’ as a trade-off,” Arthur says, trying to sound firm, “You don’t want this.”

John’s gaze moves slowly down the older man’s body, obviously lingering on the bulge in Arthur’s pants.

“I don’t?” John asks softly as he raises his eyes back up to meet Arthur’s.

Arthur swallows thickly, uncertainty like a weighted chain around his lungs, every breath feeling too heavy.

“You don’t,” Arthur says quickly.

And knows he’s aiming it at himself just as much as he’s aiming it at John.

“Why’d you say it was okay, then, Arthur?” John whispers, “You knew I was gettin’ off on the thought of you… And you let me.”

“S’different,” Arthur says, muffled by his hand, “That ain’t this, you ain’t that stupid.”

John sits back on his heels, studying the older man.

Looking _far_ calmer than Arthur feels.

“You want me to...” John jerks his head towards the treeline, “So you can take care of that?”

“I ain’t ‘takin’ care’ of shit,” Arthur says firmly.

John’s brows furrow in genuine confusion, the placid mask the younger man had been wearing faltering.

“So it’s fine if I do it, but not if you do it?” John asks.

“It is _different,”_ Arthur says clearly, slowly, his tone letting John know that trying to change the older man’s mind would be a fool’s gamble.

“You gotta give me somethin’,” John counters, “Let me do somethin’, with how much I owe you…”

“You don’t owe me nothin’,” Arthur says slowly, lowering his hand from his burning cheeks to tug uncomfortably at the fabric of his pants, where it’s pulling into creases in the crook of his hip.

“I owe you everythin’, Art,” John says sincerely.

Arthur takes a few deep breaths and shakes his head, pulling one leg up to press his heel against John’s knee.

“Fine, you owe me that much? Go get the horses ready, and pack your shit up,” Arthur says firmly, shoving at John’s knee, “We’re just wastin’ time here.”

John’s nose scrunches and he looks like he’s about to argue but Arthur levels him with an exhausted glare and the younger man submits, rubbing his arm awkwardly as he slips on his boots and disappears into the trees.

Arthur flops back on his bedroll, pressing the heels of his palms firmly against his closed eyes and wondering when it became so difficult to have morals.

\--

  
They hardly talk the entire day.

They ride until the dark starts closing in and they have to make camp again.

Arthur’s tired of this crooked path to progress and it’s weighing on his shoulders.

He almost wants to let John…

Let John do whatever John thinks John wants, and then just figure out the repercussions as they go.

But he knows that that’s the easy way out, and that it might end up doing more damage to the younger man.

They find a nook between a stream and a sheer hill to set up their tent, the air thick with incoming rain.

John tends to the horses while Arthur pitches the tent and gets all their things settled inside.

John ducks in as Arthur is digging through his satchel, sitting on the bedroll closest to the opening of the tent.

John takes his boots off then slips around Arthur to sprawl on his own bedroll.

Arthur pulls out his journal and turns to sit with his legs crossed at the head of his bedroll.

Facing John who’s resting his chin on his crossed arms, laying on his stomach.

Arthur drags the butt end of his pencil over the crease between the pages  
  
He scans over the tent with the urge to draw something and he knows what he _wants_ to draw but he tries to settle on something else.

He gives up.

“John?” Arthur murmurs, twisting his pencil around, “Look up at me n’ don’t move ‘til I say so.”

John lifts his head in confusion then glances at the journal and gets it.

It's not the first time Arthur's used him as a subject.

He props his chin on his fist and studies Arthur’s face tiredly.

Even though he asked for it, Arthur has to fight himself from flustering with John’s attention solely focused on him.

So he draws, instead.

Glancing back and forth between John and the paper.

“Your hair’s gotten long,” Arthur mentions as he draws out the dark waves, frizzy with the humidity.

“Mm-hm,” John hums and glances to the side where a strand is hanging against his cheek.

Then looks back at Arthur as the older man idly taps the lead against the paper.

"Alright," Arthur murmurs.

“Do I get to see it?” John asks wryly.

When he was younger he’d always try and snoop in the older man’s journals, even before he could read, just to look at the drawings.

Arthur turns the journal around for John to see.

John’s nose scrunches up and he leans forward squinting at the drawing.

“S’that how I look?”

“You own a mirror,” Arthur says roughly.

“I think you went and drew me prettier than I actually am,” John

"What? I drew you 'xactly how you look," Arthur protests.  
  
John hums disbelievingly and reaches up to take the journal.

Arthur holds on out of instinct for only a second before he remembers it's just John.

John sets the journal down in front of him and lowers his face to look at the detail.

"Forget how good y'are sometimes," John murmurs.

"I ain't that good," Arthur denies.

"Uh-huh," John knows better than to touch the drawing, only managed it once before Arthur put the fear of God in him with how deadly low his voice had dropped.

And he's seen drawings in the paper, on walls in buildings, but they don't _feel_ like Arthur's.

"You could do somethin', you know? Pro'bly the only one of us…"

"Whatchu mean?" Arthur asks and John looks up to see the older man's face scrunched in confusion.

"Do somethin' more, I mean, make an honest livin'," John says quietly, "People pay pretty for good art."

Arthur huffs and turns away.

There's a rolling thunder in the distance.

John moves his fingers to the bottom left corner of the page before nudging Arthur's knee with his elbow.

"S'okay if I look? Won't read none of it."

"You can look," Arthur says gruffly, "Can read it, I don't care."

John hums his thanks and turns to the previous page.

It's mostly words, a small doodle in the corner of a rabbit.

He turns the page.

Skims the blocks of script.

Turns the page.

Turns the page.

There's a drawing of him, taking up a quarter of one page.

He's sitting on a log and looking to one side.

John thinks he was talking to someone around the fire back at camp.

Glances up at Arthur who's looking at his own lap, picking horse hairs off his pant legs.

John skims the text but doesn't see his name.

Doesn't know why Arthur decided to draw him just then.

He turns the page to more script, some deer, script, an old building, script, script, Dutch and Hosea sitting together, script…

Him, sleeping, and Arthur's drawn him from the older man's perspective, looking down at John with his face centered in the page, Arthur's own leg scribbled in at the bottom.

John looks up at Arthur again.

"You draw me the most?"

"M'round you the most," Arthur mutters, not meeting his eyes.

"You never drew Mary this much."

"Hah," Arthur reaches up and rubs his cheek, "Mary didn't like bein' drawn."

"Why?"

"Said it took too long, didn't care if I drew the memory of 'er but…" Arthur shrugs stiffly.

"I don't mind," John says slowly, "You make me look almost decent."

He watches Arthur's eyes moved to look at the side of the tent, the tied-closed flaps, and then finally meet his own.

"Get that little black pouch outta my bag," Arthur says.

John huffs and rolls over to grab the satchel, fishing out the drawstring pouch and bringing it back.

He flops onto his back next to Arthur and hands it over.

Arthur takes it and puts his journal away before opening the pouch and holding his hand out to John with a strip of dried meat pinched in his fingers.

John takes it slowly then watches Arthur start chewing on a piece before he tears off a bite of his own.

"Thanks," John mutters between chewing.

Arthur makes a small noise of ascent then scoots to lay down next to John.

“Would you get out, if you could?” John asks hesitantly.

“Get out?”

“Stop livin’ like us, killin’, robbin’, runnin’ from the law…”

Arthur sniffs quietly and chews instead of answering.

“I think you could, y’know, become a professional artist, have a family or somethin’,” John mutters.

Arthur acts on the urge he had yesterday and shoves a piece of jerky into John's mouth, the younger man making a muffled sound of protest, sitting up slightly and shoving Arthur.

“You’re talkin’ nonsense, John,” Arthur says roughly.

John huffs and pushes Arthur’s hand away from his mouth so he can take the meat and chew on it angrily.

“You could,” John says firmly.

“I’m sure bein’ an artist is better than bein’ an outlaw but I don’t even know,” Arthur sighs and rubs at his chin, “I don’t think that’s the ‘honest work’ Mary had in mind.”

John groans dramatically and covers his face.

“What?” Arthur asks defensively.

“Is anythin’ good ‘nough for Mary?” John asks bitterly.

“Hey, now,” Arthur turns to look at him and points sternly, “That ain’t fair.”

“It ain’t fair to _you,”_ John bites back before taking a big bite and occupying himself with chewing.

“She grew up a certain way, you know that, it’s well within her rights to wanna keep those comforts,” Arthur argues.

“Then why’d she entertain anythin’ with you in the first place?” John asks incredulously with a cheek full of jerky.

“She thought she could make me better, I thought I could be better,” Arthur says stiffly, “We were both wrong.”

John doesn’t respond immediately, using his thumbs to finely shred the meat left in his hands.

“Think you’re fine ‘nough,” John mutters.

Arthur snorts quietly.

John turns to face him and pokes at the older man’s ribs tiredly.

“I mean it.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and closes the pouch, tossing it over John to sit with his satchel, before grabbing John’s hand and holding it tightly.

The younger man wrinkles his nose and tries to pull his hand back but Arthur has it trapped.

“Do you want to leave the gang?” Arthur asks seriously.

“What?”

“You’ve been… The way you’ve been talkin’ lately,” Arthur sighs and brings his other hand up to close John’s hand in between his own.

“I never thought I’d live to see sixteen, eighteen, twenty,” John says slowly, lowering his gaze and sucking on the inside of his cheek, “Hell, y’know, sometimes I feel like this is a fever dream, and I’m-a wake up hidin’ in the loft of someone’s barn?”

“Dutch is a good man,” Arthur says quietly.

“Never said he wasn’t,” John mutters and scoots closer to Arthur, “Where’d that come from?”

“You wanna turn on him?” Arthur asks, hushed, “Us? After everythin’?”

“No,” John says firmly, “That ain’t what I said, Arthur, don’t twist it like that.”

“Then what _are_ you sayin’?”

John huffs and tries to pull his hand away again only for Arthur to uncurl his fist and press John’s palm flat to the older man’s sternum.

Covers the younger man’s hand with both of his.

“Y’know when I dreamt of bein’ an outlaw as a kid, it weren’t like this,” John says slowly, “‘Cause I didn’t know about the money or murderin’ then.”

“John, just speak plainly,” Arthur says tiredly, squeezing John’s hand.

“Thought it’d be fun,” John mutters, “It really ain’t.”

Arthur’s quiet for a few minutes then gives one last squeeze before releasing John’s hand.

“Go to sleep, Johnny,” Arthur murmurs and turns away, yanking his blanket up over himself.

John falls asleep frowning at the older man’s back.

\--

Arthur wakes up to John’s sleep-murmuring and immediately knows something’s wrong.

He flips over and reaches out, following the lines of John’s arms up to the younger’s face.

He sees the vague shapes of John’s expression cringe away and then the younger goes quiet and his eyes open.

But he doesn’t say anything.

“S’it a nightmare?” Arthur asks quietly, voice sleep-rough.

John doesn’t answer.

The sound of raindrops hitting against the canvas around them, the wind whistling through the seams, it’s almost overwhelming compared to the peace of unconsciousness.

“You alright?” Arthur asks quietly and shoves some of the strands of hair back from John’s face.

The younger man slowly shakes his head.

Arthur smooths his palm down the side of John’s cheek, frowning in worry.

“Y’wanna talk ‘bout it?” Arthur asks hesitantly.

John shakes his head again.

“Okay…”

John shifts and grunts quietly in pain, pushing up into a sitting position.

“Shoulder still?” Arthur asks.

“... Yeah,” John says hoarsely.

“C’mere,” Arthur murmurs and carefully helps John take off his shirt before getting the younger man to lay down with his back to Arthur.

The older man kneels and reaches over John to his satchel, pinching the tin of healing salve with his fingertips before laying back down.

“Did you ever put somethin’ on this?” Arthur asks, frowning at the shadow of the fading bruise.

“No,” John mutters, “Ain’t ‘pposed to take this long to heal.”

“Hm,” Arthur thumbs open the tin and smears some on his fingers before gently pressing the glob to John’s skin, moving it in small circles and letting the younger man’s body heat soften the salve.

John sniffs and shifts closer to Arthur before tilting to lay more on his stomach, burrowing his face into the crook of his own arm.

“Hosea says sometimes you heal slow if you ain’t eatin’ proper,” Arthur says quietly as he sets the tin down and props his head up with one hand, slowly increasing the size of the circle with his fingertips.

He flattens his hand against John’s shoulder blade and carries the pressure outward and up to the top of John’s shoulder.

John flinches slightly, instinctively moving away from the pain.

Arthur hushes him and moves his hand closer to John’s spine, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the bruise.

“Never understood how you dream so much,” Arthur murmurs.

“Gladly trade you,” John mutters, muffled with his face tucked away.

“Well, they’re _good_ sometimes,” Arthur jokes quietly and smiles tiredly when John huffs a laugh.

“S’always so damn _bright,”_ John turns his head to say clearly, “Swear it feels more real than when ‘m awake sometimes.”

Arthur catches a tender spot with a sideways drag of his thumb and John inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters and moves back to a safer area, making idle shapes, “This helpin’ at all?”

“Feels good, mostly,” John whispers, dragging his fingers through his hair to move it off his neck and back.

“Dunno what I’m doin’, actually,” Arthur admits and John barks a laugh.

“You can stop, f’you want to,” John offers.

“Feels good?” Arthur asks curiously.

“Mm-hm.”

Arthur drags the pad of his thumb down the knobs of John’s spine and feels the younger man shudder under his touch, John curling up slightly.

Arthur pauses, letting the backs of his knuckles rest on John’s skin.

“S’that good or bad?”

“... Good,” John says hoarsely before turning his face into his arm again.

Arthur presses his lips together, circling one knob of John’s spine with his thumb.

He runs his knuckles slowly up to the nape of John’s neck.

John makes a small noise, then presses up into the touch, rounding his spine and curling up further.

Arthur lingers for a moment, moving his fingers alongside the younger man’s spine, feeling the finer hairs on the back of John’s neck.

Thunder cracks loudly, not too far from them, and it startles Arthur into pulling his hand away, hovering.

He swallows thickly and pulls back completely.

“Try to get some more sleep,” The older man mutters and flops onto his back, slinging an arm over his face.

He hears John take a shaky breath in before shuffling back onto his own bedroll, drawing his blanket up over his head and curling up into a lump.

Arthur sucks on his lower lip, biting down to stop himself from smiling.

Fond.

And so _fucking_ conflicted.

\--

They ride into town mid-morning and search every establishment.

But there's no one even _close_ to the man Dutch described.

"God _dammit,"_ Arthur mutters as they exit the barber, their last place to look.

"What the hell'd Dutch want him for anyhow?" John murmurs, fiddling with the starched sleeve cuff of one of his new shirts as he walks in step with Arthur.

"Lord knows," Arthur grunts and hoists himself into Bo's saddle.

John mounts Old Boy and they start riding back the way they came.

"This woulda counted as revenge?" John asks slowly after they're a few minutes out of town.

Arthur frowns and glances back at the younger man.

John looks serious, and a little concerned.

"Goin' after a man who wronged you long time ago? Don't that sound like revenge?"

Arthur opens his mouth to correct, to reassure, to stop any hint of slander to Dutch's good name…

But John's right.

"It _is_ revenge, ain't it? That he's always preachin' 'bout?" John asks quietly, looking down at Arthur with deeply furrowed brows, "Sayin' it's a fool's game? A desperate man's game?"

"... Yeah."

Arthur watches John rub at his head weakly before pulling out his case, offering a cigarette to Arthur.

John hands the match over too once his own is lit.

They smoke.

They don't talk about Dutch again the rest of the ride.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this over about two weeks and tried to catch all the continuity errors but there still might be some hhhhh
> 
> tumblr and twitter @gwennolmarie


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